Improvise, Adapt, and Overcome
by Victory32
Summary: A/U. Set Pre-series. Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for. Rated T for language and violence.
1. Choices

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **This is a complete departure to most of the other work I've posted here. I'm going down a much different road with this story. While its rooted in Supernatural fiction it is combined with bits and pieces of events that happened during military operations in Iraq. With that said, I felt out of respect to the infantry men who actually served during the OIF operations surrounding this story I had to be fairly general when writing, leaving out what might seem like important details every now and then. I was not there with the men who served in combat all I have are bits and pieces of stories that have been shared by friends that I've subsequently mashed together to make my own work of fiction. As a prior service member myself I have nothing but respect for those who have served and continue to serve in the U.S. Military.

With all that said- please leave a comment when you're done reading, good or bad, I'll take it. :)

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

_Breathe._

His vision was blurred, sweat, dirt, mud, and chunks of who the hell knew what else was smeared across his face, stuck in his eyebrows matted down under his helmet.

_Fucking Breathe._

Someone was screaming in his ear, _literally screaming_, but the words were barely audible and his first thought was _Sam_—_where the hell was Sam?_ He felt the pull of someone's hands grabbing the straps of his ruck sack; in an instant he's off balance and throws a hand out steady himself as he nearly falls forward into them. His left hand lands hard on the ground, smashes hard into hundreds of sharp pieces of hot metal, but holds him steady. Seconds later when he pulls it up to his face, he sees it's covered in fine sand, small cuts, splotches of blood and any thoughts of Sam dissipate immediately.

_"WINCHESTER! Move out!" _The voice was there again, this time loud and clear, Sergeant Krantz.

_Right. _No time to think, no time to process. _Just get the fuck out. _ He's on his feet again, both hands securing his weapon. Together they made their way down a flight of concrete stairs and out of the door they'd broken down minutes earlier, ran about ten meters down the road, dust kicking up around them as a surface wind blew down the nearly abandoned thoroughfare. Dean watched as Sgt. Krantz pulled up, slowing to a stop just in front of him as they approached an intersection, his hand held out a warning to go no further. The sound of gunfire was closing in; bullets were pinging out a deadly rhythm, smashing into the side of a burned out and rusted pick-up truck parked less than fifteen meters away.

Dean looked around; his rifle pulled into a defensive position, and kept it trained on the doors and windows of the surrounding buildings. _He'll be damned if anyone else caught him off guard tonight._

"It's clear." Krantz said, "Let's move."

Dean blinked at him, forced his feet to move— to carry his body around the corner. As he came around the corner, just behind Krantz, Dean caught a glimpse of Corporal Hanson just ahead. Twenty more meters and they'd be back with the rest of the squad. God, even if it had only been ten—_fifteen minutes at most_— it was good to see them, _all still standing._

As they approached the remaining eleven other members of the squad Dean listened to the chatter amongst them, flipped the safety on his M249 and let it fall loosely around his chest. He exhaled, nerves raw and amped up, exhaustion consuming him. He leaned into the side panel the squads Stryker infantry vehicle—a heavily armored military vehicle he'd come to regard as the only 'safe' place parked in the middle of combat and stared out at the ruble and disarray around him.

"Jesus Christ Winchester." Corporal Hanson was looking at him funny, picking at the stuff covering his Kevlar. Dean watched him with a semi morbid fascination—human flesh and blood being peeled from his gear. "Up close and personal this time?" he asked.

Dean nodded. _Kill or be killed. Keep yourself breathing._

In total, six houses had been cleared by the squad in the past thirty minutes. Small pickings, but good work considering… Only one house had had any occupants—_had _being the operative word. What was left of that occupant was still sticking to the walls of the house, the uniform Dean was wearing. Dean shook his head, tried to clear it as he poured water from his canteen into his hand and drug it over his face. He spit as the taste of iron rushed over his lips—he wasn't sure who's blood it was—_his or the other guys_. Dean looked at Hanson who gave him a quick grin and nodded.

He looked around the terrain, looked at the city walls crumbling around them riddled with bullet holes and even larger gaps from an occasional rocket propelled grenade, IED, or suicide bomber. This place was hell hole, a hot mess. Why anyone would ever come back to this place was beyond him. Why anyone had stayed behind in the first place was even more perplexing. In all honesty this small section of the city was literally a ghost town now. With that thought Dean felt an acrid laugh escape his throat, the irony of the situation slapping him in the face.

In the world of the Marine Corp he had just done his god-damn job. In the world he'd occupied for the majority of his life, he'd just created another pissed off spirit that was sure to haunt the hell out of some hunter somewhere in the world. Part of him felt guilty about that, felt like shit that he was bound to be creating a new generation of angry ghosts, the very monsters he'd been taught to take for as long as he could remember. But then again, he was tired of playing his father games, and _he'd made his choice_.

* * *

**CHOICES**

WHETHER HIS CHOICE had been made out of anger, spite or something else entirely Dean hadn't quite decided, but the decision to join the Marine Corp had been swift and poignant none the less.

In January 2003, the decision was made almost a year and a half after Sam had taken off for Stanford; about six months after John Winchester, _Father of the Year_, had ditched him and left to become a solo hunter. He'd been angry and confused and honestly he felt a little abandoned and hurt by the entire situation. Then he realized, if everyone else had a license to do what the hell they wanted, it was, Dean had decided, time for him to get in line.

So it was, one week before his twenty fourth birthday, Dean Winchester found himself staring at a glossy poster of a man in full battle dress holding an M16 Assault Rifle a single word written at the bottom: MARINE.

Recruiter, Gunnery Sergeant Erdman, was blunt and honest about the prospects of joining the Corp. "A GED is not a HS Diploma," he said and hell Dean doesn't argue—he's knows the difference, "and I can only accept two recruits each fiscal year that have a GED. However, lucky for you," he continues, "if you follow through and pass everything else, you'll be the second one."

By the time he's left the recruiter's office Dean has chosen to take the statement '_if _you follow through' as a challenge and already has an appointment at the Military Entrance Processing Station in Sioux Falls, South Dakota set up for two days later. It's 0530 or 5:30 a.m. civilian time (thanks to his dad Dean's got military time down) when Sgt. Erdman arrives at Bobby Singers house to collect Dean and whisk him off to MEPS for a physical and his first shot at the ASVAB. Neither really pose a threat to him—the physical he can ace, and the ASVAB… well, _it's not like it's that hard._ His only real concern is the background check, but the worst it's going to turn up is the fact that his dad has had a few run-ins with the law—Dean's been damn lucky so far.

By 1400 hours that same day Dean is sitting in the Marine Corp Liaison's office discussing career options and opportunities, but there's really only one he's interested in… MOS (military occupational specialty) 0311; infantry rifleman, and that's what he gets. When he leaves MEPS that afternoon he's sitting in the passenger seat of Gunnery Sergeant Erdman's government vehicle staring down at a piece of paper that lists his in processing date as January 27th, 2003. He has seven days to get everything in order, enough time to take care of a few loose ends, but not enough time for his father or brother to get around to checking their voice messages and find out what Dean's plans actually entail—besides he won't be calling them until the 26th, at the earliest.

The day before Sergeant Erdman is set to pick him up for his final trip to MEPS Dean covers his Impala with a thick brown tarp and makes Bobby Singer swear on his life that nothing will happen to his precious baby until he gets through training—_which according to his paperwork won't be finished until mid-June._

That night Dean pulls an all-nighter, hitting up all of the hole in the wall bars Sioux Falls has to offer, and the "I'm going away to war" line pays dividends twice that night. 0530 rolls around too damn fast and before he knows it Erdman is dragging him and his small luggage bag through the MEPS parking lot, screaming at Dean all the while. Dean throws up not once, but twice, before he hits the doors and Erdman looks pissed, but that gives way the second he plants Dean's butt in a chair inside MEPS a smile spreading across his face, "I hope you had yourself one hell of a last hoorah last night recruit 'cause tonight ain't gonna be near as much fun."

And Erdman was right; the night of January 27th, 2003 would never be one Dean remembers as being anything remotely fun.


	2. Recruit

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **Again, this is a work of fiction, based on fact. It is not my intention to offend anyone.

With all that said- please leave a comment when you're done reading, good or bad, I'll take it. :)

* * *

**THE RECRUIT**

Recruit Winchester doesn't take nearly as long to acclimate to boot camp as some of the younger guys in his platoon. As Dean had long ago figured The John Winchester Academy of Killing Monsters pretty much got its training manual from the Marine Corp.

In the first few weeks yelling is the only constant beyond the hurry up and wait philosophy of any military branch. One night he hears a recruit mumble something, as they are spit shinning their boots, to the effect that his recruiter told him the drill instructors weren't supposed to scream profanities at you and Dean nearly falls off of his bunk. In just the past fifteen hours Recruit Winchester has been called a piece of fucking trash (because everyone and everything is officially trash in the recruit barracks), a goddamn waste of humanity, and smart assed mother fucker. Profanity was just a way of life. At any rate, he tells the kid, he'd choose the profanity over doing another one hundred and fifty push-ups because some idiot dropped the ball on some menial task they'd been assigned. The kid nods, and Dean rubs at his triceps, it's safe to say he's done more push-ups in the past two weeks then he's ever done in his entire life.

By the third week, while yelling was still a common theme, training had shifted into an entirely different arena and Dean finds an opportunity to rise above and shine. He's right at home during training on the bayonet assault course, pugil sticks, and Marine Corps martial arts training. After all, being afraid of a wendigo coming at you in the dark is a hell of a lot worse than playing war hero in a contained training environment. Not to mention his senses are spot on. The instructors take notice almost immediately, giving him an opportunity as squad leader. While he's not that excited about being somewhat singled out, he's getting recognition and for once _it's good_. He has his dad to thank for that.

_Dad._

Hmmm.

When he lies awake at night he wonders what his dad is up to, how the last hunt had gone, if he's fine, and whether or not he's even realized Dean was gone. Surely by now, five weeks in, when Dean hadn't gotten any of his text messages or responded to any of his 'job notifications/coordinates' he must have checked his voice mail and figured it out. He hopes his father is safe and sound—not that he'd find out if he weren't anyway—John who understood how to contact his son at the barracks better than most, would never do it. While his father remains aloof Dean knows Sam has figured it out. Two days earlier he'd gotten an actual letter from his brother. He'd been surprised by it, the only person he'd purposely written to and received letters from had been Bobby Singer (letters to Bobby that give a quick status update here and there and letters from Bobby to satisfy his curiosity about recent hunts, etc.) so he figured Bobby must have broken down and given Sam the address at some point.

Dean still hadn't read the letter though, he'd started to open it, but he'd been riding on such a high during the past few weeks of training the last thing he wanted was the buzz kill from what was sure to be a strongly worded lecture from his younger brother. So he stashed it in his foot locker and decided to wait for another day.

It wasn't until the end of week six Dean felt any sort of apprehension regarding training. By then he was standing at the top of a 60 foot tower, strapped into a harness and feeling himself start to sway when the instructor pulls him forward, "Let's go." Dean stares back at him, "Aye sir." There aren't many things that legitimately scare the hell out of him, but heights and flying are at the very top of the list. And rappelling is a horrifying combination of falling from a height and flying through the air on a rope. He listens to a series of instructions, _reminders of how to survive this drill,_ repeating them back to the instructor as the he is fastened and secured by the rope around him. "Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go. Break hand, small of your back. Take a step down. Shoot your break hand out." Then the instructor smiles noticing the hesitation on Dean's face, "Do_NOT_ death grip the rope." He barks the order out and with that Dean feels like he's plummeting down.

That Sunday, just as every Sunday before, he finds himself in the back of a church service, not because he's suddenly found religion or anything (although, he reflects, the rappelling tower could have qualified as a call from God). Instead he's there because it's the only place to get away from the constant training environment and just relax for an hour. As he listens to the sermon from the pulpit in front he leans back into the solid oak pew and pulls out the letter he'd gotten from Sam days earlier, unfolds it and takes a deep breath.

_Dean,_

_I have to admit I thought you were screwing with me when I got you message saying you were leaving for boot camp a few weeks back. You sounded like you were three sheets to the wind (I'm guessing you probably were) so I figured you were just blowing off some steam—pissed at dad or something. Guess you proved me wrong, huh? _Jerk.

_Seriously, Dean, I'm not sure you understood me when I said to you that you had options that you didn't always have to be dads good little soldier. I sure as hell didn't mean you should go all Full Metal Jacket on us. Speaking of dad—what the hell did he think about this? He can't be happy. Unless maybe he just resigned to the idea of letting us grow up and go on with life. Either way, I really hope you know what you're doing. I'm sure you're aware there is a war going on— pretty sure you're aware you've just jumped straight into the fire. _

_I don't know if I was more worried about you hunting with dad or if I'm more freaked about you landing in the middle of an actual combat zone, alone. _

_Please take care of yourself. –Sam_

Dean re-reads the letter three times, shocked by the attempted lighthearted comments scribbled in ink, before he folds it up and puts it away. _Full Metal Jacket. _He almost laughs. _Yeah, _despite his attempts to pretend he doesn't, _he misses the hell out of his little brother. _

The remainder of the time he spends in boot camp seems to move by genuinely fast. The entire platoon makes it through the firing ranges, water course, confidence course, the crucible and before long their standing at attention about to receive something they've all put their blood, sweat and tears into earning. When his senior drill instructor stands in front of him and presses the Marine Corp Emblem into his palm Recruit Winchester ceases to exist and a "Congratulations Marine" has him feeling more accomplished than he has ever felt before.

One week of boot camp, ten days of leave and fifty two days of advanced training are all that stand in the way of Dean Winchester now and he's not about to back down. Besides, he can't get his damn car back until he's done with training—and sweet Jesus he misses his car too.


	3. Just in Case

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **Again, this is a work of fiction, based on fact. It is not my intention to offend anyone.

* * *

**JUST IN CASE…**

It was all of seven months after he completes his training courses, Lance Corporal Dean Winchester had been handed orders to pack up and ship out to war.

He tries to reach his father, lets the phone ring four times before he hears his father's voice, and finds himself leaving yet another voicemail, "Hey dad, I just wanted to let you know I'll be out of the country for a while. Just checking in, you know thought maybe you had some advice or something- but uh, yeah… I guess, uh… I guess I'll try to catch you in few weeks alright?" It's disappointing, but Dean has come to expect it. In total he's talked to his dad three times in the past year—it's always brief and to the point. Clipped conversations that used to be filled out by a father giving his oldest son orders, are now filled with the sense that John now knows he's outweighed by the USMC— and the only orders Dean takes now are from the Marine Corp chain of command.

In those conversations though Dean's never heard his father explicitly say he's upset with Dean's choices, but he's never said he was proud either, and Dean always comes away from phone calls to John Winchester with the feeling of self-deprecation and loathing.

Sam on the other hand is a completely different story, and when Dean calls him to fill him in on the news, a panic stricken little brother is choking back some serious emotion on the other end of the line. His voice strained as he speaks, "I'm coming down to see you."

"Jesus. Don't do that Sam." Dean clears his throat, "I don't have that much free time right now anyway." Despite the fact that for over a year now he and Sam have occupied space in the same state, a little less than an eight hour drive from one another, neither one has made the trip to spend time with the other. Dean purposely neglected to fill Sam in on Family Day or Graduations. His choice to join the Corp while it may have been spurred by abandonment issues—was in the long run about finding himself, not about his dad, not about Sam, and he wanted to see it to the end the same way he came in. Alone.

"It doesn't matter Dean." Sam was insistent, demanding, "I'm not saying goodbye to you over the phone. Besides when someone leaves for a warzone the decent thing to do is say goodbye to them in person." What Sam doesn't say is, _just in case, _but Dean can hear it in his voice. Not that Sam isn't justified in his concerns. The military has taken some pretty serious hits in the past few months, specifically the Marine Corp, but Dean doesn't want to think about pictures he'd seen of caskets being loaded on to a cargo hold of a USAF aircraft before he deploys so he backs down before Sam reminds him of it any further.

"Yeah, yeah, okay. Whatever Sam." Dean laughs trying to hide the unease in his voice, "If it's the decent thing to do."

When it comes down to it, the military is never that great at following through with the plans they put on paper. And just because you have orders with a deployment date doesn't mean that's when you'll actually leave. So when Dean gets the call that says he has 24 hours to get his personal affairs in order before they are shipped out (never mind its two weeks earlier than his original orders) Dean feels like he's letting his brother down when he calls him to say he won't be able to get together. Sam who characteristically has never gone quietly into the night lets it be known he's pissed, but settles with a simple, "I love you man—take care of yourself, okay?" then after a long pause adds, "I mean it you'd better make it back Dean."

Dean sits with Sam's last comment for a good twenty minutes. Hearing Sam's voice, hearing the stress that sneaks into the conversations with his brother makes deployment feel _real_. Makes him realize what he's about to do and he thinks back to the letter Sam had sent him in boot camp. _I don't know if I was more worried about you hunting with dad or if I'm more freaked about you landing in the middle of an actual combat zone, alone. _ It's pretty clear which one Sam is more afraid of by now.

Despite the fact he has no intention of letting Sam down, no intention of coming back other than in one piece and fully functional; there is one official piece of business he has to attend to. He walks the two miles to base post office, where he fills out a brown envelope with Sam's name and address and inserts a short note:

_Sammy,_

_Hey man—I know you think I'm alone in this shit. I'm not though—these guys in my squad (all twelve of them) got my six man. I know it's not like the family business—but you're at Stanford, and dad's gone solo—and these guys… hell we're tight and not that they'd ever replace you or anything, but they're my family going into this and you don't have to worry. _

_By the way, I plan on coming back for these, so don't be a little bitch about it and don't get all teary eyed. _

_Seriously though, if things don't go the way I want—take care of her, or I'll haunt your ass. _

_Dean_

Then he slides the keys to his Impala inside, says a short prayer, and seals the envelope shut. _He's gonna get those keys back… he will come home._

But _just in case… _

_Just in case he doesn't, _giving the Impala to Sam_—it's the decent thing to do._

As he hands the envelope to the waiting clerk he smiles, masking the pain he feels radiating in his chest. "Can you make sure these don't get lost in the mail sugar?"

"We'll do our best." She says and returns his smile.

And so will he.


	4. Welcome to the Sandbox

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **Again, this is a work of fiction, based on fact. It is not my intention to offend anyone.

* * *

**WELCOME TO THE SANDBOX**

By the time they land in the middle of Nowhere, Iraq its 0330, on February 21st, 2004. Dean's already feeling queasy and unnerved from the series of flights he's been on the past few days (he'd much preferred the ride across the pacific with the Navy as opposed to dealing with the crazy as shit Air Force pilots), so when his boots hit the ground he's actually quite happy to be on solid ground again, despite that fact he is now in the middle of a warzone. He sighs, as he steps off the plane in full gear, its pitch black all around and stale as hell outside on the landing field. Lucky for him they aren't long on the airfield before they're packed into sardine can of a bus, and driven another forty-five minutes to a forward operating base where they are finally dumped out and ordered to get into formation.

"Well this is _always _fun." Corporal Ben Hanson was standing at parade rest next to Dean, chewing gum and smiling widely, "Welcome to the Sandbox Winchester—this sure as hell ain't Kansas anymore." Hanson who was on his second deployment, was from some Podunk town in Iowa, some place Dean had never heard of—_which in his previous line of work was probably a good thing_. A year younger than Dean, with fourteen more months' time-in-service, Ben was a tall, well-built guy with light blonde hair and broad shoulders. He had a big personality too, somewhat of a loud mouth and cocky as hell—but likable, and probably the best friend Dean has ever had, aside from Sam.

The short little lieutenant—the platoon commander— First Lieutenant Barlow, was in front of them now, bopping around and barking out orders over the sound of air craft taking off and landing, which seemed to be happening every few minutes, coating them with a thin layer of dust and sand each time. Dean blinked through the sand, watched, and tried to listen. Dean's not exceedingly fond of the lieutenant, the way he handles himself or the way he expects everyone to blindly follow him to the ends of the earth—it reminds him too damn much of his father—_but this guy?_ He's the same damn age as Dean. And he sure as hell isn't John Winchester, which is why Dean can't bring himself to commit one-hundred and ten percent to everything he says.

* * *

They spend three hours in the early morning before the sun comes up unloading heavy equipment and a series of pallets (supplies) before they were shuffled through a processing line and escorted to a corner of the tent city where a sign had been posted that read "Viper City Limits" and told to sack out for a few solid hours. Once inside the thick canvas walls, Dean throws his stuff down on the plywood floor, kicks his boots off and falls back into a sitting position on the military provided cot, exhaling as he takes stock of his surroundings. _Right about now he'd take a shitty motel room—even take sharing a damn bed with his kid brother over the campground he's about to call home for— the next nine months._

"Hey man," Corporal Hanson kicks at Dean's cot, jarring him. "Don't leave your boots on the ground." He says as he flips his own boot over a post at the end of his rack, "Scorpions man—they'll crawl inside."

Dean reaches down to pick up his boots, shakes them out, just to make sure one hasn't already made a home inside and sighs, "Right." _Scorpions. _Awesome.

Around him Dean watches several other members of his squad take the same precautions, everyone looking exhausted, looked like they could sleep for hours if not days. _And this was just the beginning._

"Listen up Marines." Dean looks over and sees Sergeant Krantz, the platoon sergeant, step into the walkway. He's a tall, lanky guy, red-hair, blue eyes—really should have been a Patrick or Fergus or some other Leprechaun name, but went by Dax instead. "You do not go to sleep tonight without your flak jacket and helmet by your side. They've been takin' mortar hits every day in this joint—_do NOT be stupid_." He stops to look at a couple of the younger kids in the squad, and then looks directly at Dean and nods, "Expect it." As he walks past he adds, "And don't get too comfy boys—I expect we'll be out by the end of the week."

Dean nods back, making sure to throw his helmet on top of his gear before he lays back. _Two hundred and seventy six days to go._

* * *

The next two days are spent standing in lines, checking and double checking records, making sure they have all the gear and supplies they're going to need. Listening to what amounts to another sermon on NBC gear (nuclear, biological, and chemical warfare—a very real prospect, _apparently)._ Down time, which surprisingly seemed quite frequent was nothing more than hours and hours of sheer boredom squelched with an occasional card game, hovering over an Xbox controller or tossing around a football— all very _American _in nature but nothing Dean is used to. It feels strange to have so much time in between possible missions, he can't remember that much spare time ever being present around his father. Of course, when the Winchester men weren't hunting they were chasing down information, researching, interviewing—here all he has to do is wait. The research is done by someone way above his pay grade and the decisions are made by them all the same, and all he and his fellow enlisted marines are left with is waiting for orders to fall from the sky. It's simple. Efficient. Boring.

So in between conversations about beer, cars, women—whose wife was screwing around with who and who had gotten lucky the night before they deployed—they slept, ate and listened to the sound of gunfire in the distance.

"Jesus Christ. You listenin' to that?" Lance Corporal Jack Adair was sitting on the ground across from Dean leaning back into a pile of sandbags. A small group had gathered outside, a game of crazy eights spread out on a rickety card table. Adair who was barely twenty, was a small kid, jet black hair, silver framed glasses, pale skin, the kid was pretty damn smart. In Deans mind Adair was a lot like Sam in that way, a kid who belonged in college, not sitting in the trenches wasting God-given talent on an M-16. Another round of _rat-a-tat-tat_ is laid out in the distance and Adair shakes his head, "I'm not sure I could just waste someone when I'm looking right at them, man."

Sergeant Jermaine Williams throws a card on the discard pile, raises his eyebrows at Hanson as he nods towards Jack Adair, then looks to Dean and shrugs his shoulders. Sergeant Williams was a tough, thick, black guy from Tennessee. He was incredibly fast on his feet, smoked damn near everyone when it came to PT. He was a quiet leader but intense. A good Marine.

From across the card table Hanson shoots Dean a look, discards a two of hearts, then shakes his head at Adair, "Well, personally I don't really wants to 'waste' anyone Jack," his voice was clipped, irritated, "but if it's them or us— _I pick them_."

"Can I get an _amen_ to that?" Williams says curtly without looking up from his hand of cards.

"Amen, man." Dean says, picks up a card from the stock pile and discards another. _Because, _seriously_—if he gets any say in this, he's gonna pick _them. Every. Time.

Adair stands up stares at the three of them around the card table, "I'm not saying I wouldn't do it." He says shoving his hands into the pockets of his cammies, "I'm just saying I don't want to see the other the guy's eyes if I do."

Dean exhaled. Truth was he had always kind of enjoyed the thrill of the hunt, relished in it actually. Rock salt, silver bullets, and a knife to the heart. Clean kill. All in the day of a Hunter. The thrill of chasing down the 'monster of the week' was a rush. And yeah, maybe he'd had a fucking superhero complex—ride in, save the damsel in distress and reap the rewards. He was _saving_ people from serious shit. _Saving them_.

The fundamental difference between being a Hunter and a Marine is crystal clear though. No one is asking him to save shit here. No damsels in distress, no reward—unless you count making it home in one piece. What he is being asked to do this time around is to kill people and blow shit up. And, well… he's going to do it because its' his job, it's what he signed up to do. But it still doesn't mean he's looking forward to face to any face showdowns with the so called 'monsters' in this country.

It's pretty damn ironic, Dean thinks, that in this country, he could easily be classified as the bad guy—_a monster. _And somewhere out there in the dark is another guy getting ready to hunt him down, _gank him at a moment's notice_.

_Welcome to the goddamn sandbox. _

* * *

A/N: If you could, leave a review, let me know what you think so far. I'd appreciate your feedback :)


	5. Kilo Company has a Job

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **Again, this is a work of fiction, based on fact. It is not my intention to offend anyone.

**One more side note: **This chapter is a little bit different-because its split into two parts, the second section is from an outside point-of-view. Hopefully you like it. Let me know :) Reviews are always welcome.

And to those of you who have reviewed- THANK YOU! So much appreciation goes your way!

* * *

**A JOB TO DO**

It's the fifth day in-country that an order comes down from command that has their short little First Lieutenant, Lieutenant Barlow, bouncing around barking out orders again.

While he's annoyed at Barlow, based on principle, he feels it's a relief to have something to keep himself busy and he's happy, _Kilo Company has a job to do._

Gearing up for a combat patrol shouldn't be so completely different from gearing up for a hunt, Dean thinks as he shoves an MRE into his ruck, but it is. Prepping for a hunt is simple, you know what you're looking for, you know how to kill it and you only take the basic necessities. Preparing for a mission is beyond complicated even in the simplest sense. Dean's official position as his fire team's squad automatic weapon (SAW) operator has him worrying about just one primary weapon, but the M249 is 17 pounds all by itself and that just the beginning of the gear he's got to carry on every mission. Gone are the days of a simple canvas bag and civilian jeans and tee's. He's got his tactical vest, extra ammo, a first aid kit, food, and more optic gear that he probably needs. By the time he'll get suited up and in full gear he'll have an additional 75 pounds added to his 6'0" frame. The great thing is though, once he's all suited up, he looks bad ass— like a fucking G.I. Joe, and he's pretty damn sure his father would be jealous—because _well_, Dean's got an automatic rifle capable of firing 750 rounds per minute—_and John Winchester has never had something this seriously bad ass in his life_.

Scanning his equipment Dean reaches out and pulls his tactical vest over his head. As he does he feels the bite of metal pressing into his chest and finds his fingers reaching through the collar of his shirt and wrapping around the familiar feel of his amulet. _I wonder what you're doin' Sammy, _he thinks, _I just hope you're safe and happy_. Instinctively he feels his hand wrapping tighter around the hard metal, letting it cut into his hand. It surprised him— a year into his 'new' life—that the feeling of missing his younger brother and being homesick for the open road could still be so overwhelming. Dean takes as much air into his lungs as they can hold and then lets it leave his lips in a slow despondent breath, his hand slowly releasing its hold on the amulet. _It's been over two years since he's last seen his brother but as long as he has this amulet Sam is always there, _always will be_. _

Tucking the amulet back underneath his shirt he makes quick work of adjusting and fastening his tactical vest. He knows he's about to walk out into a live fire situation and he can't be focusing on people and circumstances he can't change. It's time to focus on the here and now, try to relax, and get ready.

After all, _he's got a job to do._

* * *

**POV: BEN HANSON **

There was something that bothered him as he watched the other three members of his fire team gear up for their first mission. Jack Adair and Derek Jackson were prepared as they loaded up on ammo and double checked their weaponry for proper function, but he could see it, their nerves were showing. He caught the subtleties; the quick pace of conversation, brief answers bordering on too cocky or overly snarky— but as far as he was concerned it was pretty normal. It was what he had expected from a few of the squads untested Marines.

However, what wasn't _normal,_ what caught his attention and peaked his interest, was the way Winchester was acting.

Calm. Collected. Reassuring. Like he'd gone into battle before, leaving him sure and confident that things would all work out, although Ben knew damn well he hadn't.

"This ain't nothing guys." Winchester was smiling as he looked up at Adair and Jackson, he was kneeling on the ground, packing the rest of his ammo into his ruck, "There's worse shit out there than this."

Ben raised an eyebrow in Dean's direction and nodded. Winchester might have had a point, he conceded, if in fact Winchester considered getting shot at to be just another walk in the park. Because as far as Ben was concerned being shot at—_having _his_ guys shot at_—_that _was some of the worst shit out there.

For the past seven months he's been training day in and out with Lance Corporal Dean Winchester, living with him in the same quarters too. Dean is effectively his right hand man, second in command of their little fire team. But more than that, he considers Dean to be his damn near best friend. Even still he knows Dean Winchester has his share of demons that he keeps in the dark. Ben's seen those demons a few times, they come only out when Dean's had a few too many at the enlisted club and usually when that happens— _its ugly_.

There are obviously some seriously dark family issues that plague Dean. Ben knows that Dean's mother passed away in a fire when he was a kid. He knows that for Dean the Marine Corp reminds him of his family and the regimented lifestyle his father ingrained in him after his wife's death. Dean's father, Ben thinks, is the reason Dean is so at home with hand to hand combat and basic maneuvers.

Ben also knows that Dean has a younger brother—one he often talks to when no one's there and he's three sheets to the wind. In those conversations that Dean thinks he's having with Sam, Ben hears Dean apologize for things he doesn't even pretend to understand. Things he doesn't even ask his friend about the next day, because it's obviously too personal and painful.

So as Ben stands there regarding his thoughts and as he studies the _ever-so-sure_ nature of Dean Winchester, he realizes that maybe knowing what he did about Dean—preparing to walk onto a battle field truly wasn't the worst shit his friend had ever faced. It's a sobering little thought, but Ben also knows that because of all those things that lurk in Dean's past, Dean is easily the most dedicated Marine in their platoon, willing and ready to take on any job with a moment's notice. And Dean is exactly the kind of marine he wanted on his team, _one of the best._

Shaking his head free of thoughts, Ben forced himself to regroup.

He finds himself walking over to Jackson, running down a mental checklist and inspecting his subordinate's equipment. "You're on point today Jackson, you got your bearings?"

Jackson nodded, "I'm all ate-up, Hanson." Grinning ear to ear and giving his M-16 a love tap, he smiles. "You can't trust me for shit."

Ben nodded took a step back; _Jackson sure thought he was a funny son of a bitch. _Of the three fire teams in their squad, his was beyond the shadow of a doubt the most diversely charismatic.

Moving over to his right he ran through the same mental check list with Adair. Adair who had already thrown up a red flag earlier in the week was looking more and more unsure of his duties as time went by. It wasn't something that he liked to see, but Ben hoped against all odds that Jack would calm down after their first patrol, take it in and realize he could make it through. "Adair you got the extra ammo for Winchester?" he asked surveying the pouches flanking Adair's sides.

Dean didn't let that go for a second, "Dude, you better have." He chided without looking up.

Adair forced a smile and shook his head in the affirmative, "We're good."

Ben nodded, satisfied, and turned away walking over to stand in front of Dean, "Hey man," he said quietly, a conversation meant just for Dean, "You okay?"

Dean stood shrugging his ruck into a comfortable position on his shoulders, eyebrow arching up as his voice lowered, "You worried about me Ben?"

Ben cleared his throat,"I'm worried about everyone on this team Dean." He responded, "It's my job."

"Well," Dean shook his head, "Let me save you the trouble. I'm good."

* * *

**_A/N: I'm gonna try to get on updating this a little more frequently- with school starting I have a thousand things on my to do list and my fan-fiction obsession always takes the back burner. But I'm gonna try!_**


	6. MRE's & PIE

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**Other Disclaimers: **Again, this is a work of fiction, based on fact. It is not my intention to offend anyone.

* * *

**M.R.E.'s & PIE**

For the first 90 days, combat patrol was a lot more 'patrol' than it ever was 'combat'. Hours of walking up and down dusty, half abandoned city streets, paired with the high alert and edginess that followed were verging on overwhelming. Most of the guys in the squad found themselves begging for a fire fight to break the everyday monotony, release the built up adrenaline, and sooth already frayed nerves. And much to their chagrin and thankfulness they'd only been involved in a handful of small skirmishes over the last few weeks.

Today was no exception.

Dean sighs. Checks his M249 making sure it's on safety, sets it down next to his feet, and settles down against the side of his squads Stryker sinking to the ground. It's been another long day of humping around the dessert. They've still got one more patrol to run before his squad calls it a night, but for now its chow time. Wiping the sweat from under his helmet, he opens his canteen and takes a swig of tepid water. He digs into the bottom of his ruck pulls out a brown rectangular wrapped bag— Beef Enchiladas, _not bad._ He smiles to himself as he pulls out the contents of the bag; it's got a bonus hidden inside—_M&M's!_ He makes quick work of unfolding the heater, filling it with water and placing the pack of meat mixture inside to heat.

He leans back as he waits, looks at the men seated around him and watches them haggle over desserts and entrees contained in each other's M.R.E.'s. He's not gonna be trading anything tonight.

As he waits for his food to cook, Dean reaches into a cargo pocket on his chest and pulls a letter he hasn't had time to read yet today. It's from Sam. Good old, dependable Sam.

_Dean,_

_I still can't believe I missed your call. I felt like hell about it all day… must have listened to your message ten times. God man, I wish I knew when the phone was going to ring—I swear to you I'd be here to answer it. _

_Anyway, things here are pretty generic—class, I've working extended hours in the library, and studying. You know how you think my job at the library is dumb— well, I met a girl at work last week. I actually managed to get her number and a date. You'd be impressed—I know you would. You might even be jealous, she's __**really**__ something. I'll let you know how it turns out. _

_You know I keep thinking how it must really suck being stuck with a group of sweaty disgusting guys every single day. __No Chicks Anywhere__. What must be worse though is knowing your "geek" little brother is out on a date with hot blonde while you're sharing an MRE with the guys. From my end it's pretty awesome though—hell, you know I might even take her out to get some pie after the movie. _

_Yeah, pie. _

_Definitely gonna have to do that… in honor of you of course. _

_On the bright side, I'm sending you a box of junk food, plenty of chocolate to make up for the lack of bacon cheeseburgers and all that glorious pie. Hopefully it doesn't all melt before it gets there, not that that would stop you from eating it. I also tried to stuff all of the things you asked for, in your last phone call, in the box. I think I spent an entire day's pay on the postage so you owe me._

_Last— is it too much to ask for a letter every now and then? Seriously, I feel like jumping out of my skin when I watch the news—just send me a letter when you can't get to the phone so I know you're okay. That by the way is not really a request. It's an order, and beings you're inclined to take orders from pretty much everyone now—hop to it _jerk.

_As always take care of yourself. –Sam_

Dean laughs, friggin' pie—huh? _What a little_ _bitch._

But yeah, Sam's also right about one thing, he really should make more time to write to the kid—god knows that despite the joking tone of his letter Sam is choking on anxiety. Carefully Dean begins to fold the letter when writing on the back catches his attention. He quickly unfolds it again to discover a second note, dated one day after the first:

_ Dean, _

_ Date number two is this afternoon._

_ I swear man—I'm gonna marry this girl one day. _

_ BTW, you should know the apple pie was great. _J _ – Sam_

_Good for you Sammy_, Dean thought as he pictured Sam grinning widely as he wrote the added note, _you deserve it. _ Because he does, Sam deserves his normal apple pie life. Dean just hopes that one day he can be part of it—that he can participate in it more ways than just phone calls and letters. _Someday. _

Next to him he watches Hanson take a seat. Folds the letter in half and sighs. Off in the distance Dean hears the sound of gunfire. Looks up at Hanson who just shrugs, nods, and sticks a plastic spoon in his mouth. The gunfire is close enough to hear, but far enough away it sounded muffled, distant—not something they were likely to engage in.

"Your brother?" Hanson asks looking at the letter Dean is holding in his hand.

"Yeah."

"How is Sam?"

Dean smiles, "Sam's good." He replies shaking his head—_Sam is most definitely good. _Shoving the letter back in his pocket, Dean reaches down and grabs his food from the heater, making quick work of spreading the beef mixture on a tortilla wrap.

"Hey, any of you got something good to eat you wanna trade for a pudding?" Nathan Murray a tall, lanky guy from third squad had suddenly appeared, and was rummaging through the MRE pouch Dean had left on the ground, "pudding for your M&M's?" he asked casually.

Dean nodded kicking Murrays hands away from his food, "Hell no."

"Be nice now motherfucker." Murray glared at him for a moment, then laughed, took a seat next to Hanson and began rummaging through his MRE pouch.

"Nothin' in there you want." Hanson says, raising his packet of Meatloaf. "Just death loaf."

Murray grumbles under his breath, pulls out a cigarette from his cargo pocket, leans back and lights up.

Another round of fire rains down in the distance, its louder, startles Dean.

Ben Hanson bats his eyelashes as he leans into Dean resting his head on Dean's shoulder. "Will you hold me Winchester?"

"Real funny." Dean replies, staring down at Ben, he shoves him backward and rolls his eyes, "Get the hell off me Hanson."

Hanson and Murray looked at each other, grinning, and started laughing. "Don't be such a little bitch Dean." Ben sat back up, threw an elbow at Dean's side and continued shoveling food into his mouth.

Dean grimaced at the use of the phrase. It's a blaring reminder that Sam is 8,000 miles and several time zones away. He clears his throat, bites into his sloppily prepared enchilada and chews. It's not bad, but it sure as hell isn't great.

When he gets home- the first thing he's gonna do is visit Sam. He's gonna get the keys to his baby back- and then the two of them are going to find the best damn pie Palo Alto has to offer.

* * *

_**A/N: The story should begin to pick up pace again in the next chapter- at least it seems to be at this point. Please take time to leave a comment- any feedback is welcome.** :) ~L_


	7. Combat Patrol & Man Down

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**And to those of you who have reviewed- THANK YOU! So much appreciation goes your way!**

* * *

**COMBAT PATROL**

He was still thinking about Sam _and pie_ (cause damn pie sounded good) as he followed Derek Jackson down what appeared to be another abandoned strip of road inside the perimeter zone first squad was in charge of clearing. Jackson led them around the corner, down a small hill, toward a gated house. It was so god forsaken hot outside Dean felt like he'd gone swimming—waded through water in his uniform and forgotten to bring a change of clothes. The idea of being able to sit down in an air conditioned building, free of distraction and worry, and savor every bit of an apple pie sounded like the greatest damn thing on earth. But there was no air conditioning, _no freakin' pie._

Dean was trying to watch the road in front of him, trying to keep an eye on Jackson. House after house, empty abandoned. Dust flying in the air. Hot. Always hot. Oppressive air. God, air conditioning sounded like a day at a spa. Only two more days in their rotation out in the field and his squad would be pulled back onto the forward operating base, back to tent city, and a back to a halfhearted attempt at air conditioning. It couldn't come soon enough—the past eight days of heat and sweat clung to him—dried on and matted down. Dean wiped at the sweat collecting on his brow, repositioning his hands on his weapon.

Jackson paused at the bottom of the hill, signaling with his hands in the direction which he was planning to lead the fire team. Across the street another fire team in Dean's squad was mirroring their actions—careful, precise, composed.

As they approached the wrought iron gate just outside a two story house, Dean watched Jackson reach out and push a hand into the gate, it didn't budge. Jackson signaled for Hanson, who came up from the rear of the formation. It was a quick conversation, one that had been had a myriad of times since they'd been assigned the task of clearing houses sector by sector a little over two months ago. Dean listens to the conversation as he looks around his surroundings, eyes searching empty windows, closed doors, roof tops that could hide enemy fighters.

He hears Hanson fire a single shot from his side weapon into the lock placed on the gate, the lock falls to the ground with a loud thud and the gate shudders open. Jackson moves seamlessly back to point position and Hanson falls in behind Adair. Dean feels his hands tighten around his 249. God, this was the part that he hated. The part where they had no flippin' idea what they were about to walk into. It could be as simple as an empty house with nothing to offer, or as complicated as a tactical ambush. Either way, the adrenaline surge almost always sent him into tachycardia every time.

Dean sucked in a deep breath, and stepped over the threshold of the gate, following quickly behind Jackson from a semi-crouched position. Their feet were moving quickly, they had to get out of the open courtyard—near something that could offer cover or protection. He stepped over the dirt and rock, sliding a bit on loose gravel. He needed to slow down. Look. Step. Breathe. Then do it again. And again. Not a problem.

They were bearing left; Jackson was pushing on the front door. Dean looked back at Adair, who gave him a half smirk, then nodded.

He heard Jackson huff in front of him, mumble to himself, a simple quiet, "shit" as the front door swung open. Way too easy. _Shit, was right._

They were inside the door in a matter of seconds, trigger finger ready, rifles ready to fire at moment's notice. Look. Step. Breathe.

They were half way done clearing the second room, a kitchen, on the bottom level when the sound of gunfire rang out nearby.

"What the hell?—_Where?_" Jackson spun around, _"Where is that coming from?"_ They were scrambling for a wall with a window view out to the street.

"Stryker two is taking fire!" a shrill voice came across the Motorola radio on Hanson's shoulder, "Stryker One you read me? We've got one down." _Damn it._

"What are we doin' Hanson?" Adair's voice low, angry. It was _always_ personal when someone from your squad took fire.

AK-47 fire rang off the side of the house. It was close to twilight now; Dean could see the tracers as they flashed across the sky.

"Stryker two—we got you—"

More fire. "We gotta go." Dean was yelling at Hanson, "_We have got to go_!"

_"Stryker one—oh fuck!"_ The voice across the radio shrieked.

Hanson stood from a crouched position, pointing back toward the front entrance, _"Go! Go! Go!"_

Dean was running, boots on the ground. He and Jackson leading the way back across the road. They were scrambling again, this time toward a wall, some sort of cover.

Within seconds they were inside the two story house, running ups stairs, weapons trained, searching out the other members of their squad.

"Get down! Get Down!" Voices from below him, in the court yard were shouting out orders.

"Don't fucking shoot friendlies!"

"Hey! Hey! Hey! Fuck!_ Ace?! Come on man!"_ Dean looks across the expanse of the open room, looks at a large open window, and then notices a kid on the ground. He knows this kid. He_ knows _Ace. Hell he's spent hours training with the kid in the past year.

Dean was across the room in seconds, hands shaking as he slid across the floor on knees, skidding to a stop at the side of the window. Tracers were flying toward him—he watched them as they skittered from a second story window not more than twenty yards away. Gripping his rifle tight and bracing it against his upper body, he puts down a solid round, watches bullets impact the side of the house. Waits.

He listens to the commotion behind him, the sound of guys he knows—guys struggling to keep emotion from their voices as they rallied around an injured friend.

Just across from him on the other side of the window, he saw Adair take position; weapon trained on the same window opening Dean is focused in on.

"You got a visual?" Adair asks his voice shaking.

Dean shakes his head, keeping his eyes glued to the empty window, "No man, just keep your fucking eyes open, alright?"

There was a light commotion as two other marines went to work carrying PFC Ace Howard down the stairs, someplace safer, closer to an exit, closer to the medevac when it would arrive.

Minutes ticked by, while there were small bursts of fire around the house, nothing came from the window across the way. Dean was starting to feel comfortable, thinking that maybe he'd hit the god damn bastards when he saw it again—_fucking green light flying toward him. _ He heard the ammunition hit the building around him, he returned fire, clambering for a position that he could effectively take out any occupants behind the wall. Another spray of fire rang out—bullets barreling into the wall. He wasn't having any luck—_God damn it! _

For a split second he shot a glance in the direction of Adair, hoping the kid had better visual, only to see the familiar figure absent in his direct line of sight.

* * *

**MAN DOWN**

It was quick.

So fast he didn't even have time to process what was happening. But as soon as he saw it, as soon as he knew what was happening, he felt his stomach flip and fall to the ground. He was pretty sure he was screaming in that moment too. The words "Corpsman" and "Medic" being thrown out interchangeably over and over again, at a frantic pace, as he fired off a series pot shots trying to take out the enemy if he could.

_Shit. Shit. Shit. What the-?_ God, he was going to be sick.

_"CORPSMAN!" _ His throat felt raw as screamed. _Someone fucking help me!_

From the stair well Dean could see Jackson and Hanson bolting in through the door. Hanson landing hard behind him, laying down a round of cover fire as he and Jackson pulled Adair away from the low window ledge and out of harms way.

"Hey, hey, hey—you're okay man. You're okay!" Dean stared at Jackson as he leaned over Adair's ridged body. _There was absolutely no way this was happening._

It didn't seem to matter that tracers were impacting into the walls surrounding him, he felt like he was floating somewhere above his body. _SHIT!_

"Winchester lay out some suppression fire—fucking cover us." Hanson was pulling him back down—forcing him back to reality. Dean nodded, returned to a kneeling stance and let an entire magazine empty out into the building housing the enemy.

Hanson was taking aim with his grenade launcher, smiling as he exhaled and steadied his finger on the trigger. "It's time to arrange a little meeting between you and your fucking god." He breathed out, words that were ugly, and angry and Dean hoped to his god that whoever was behind that wall never set a foot outside of hell.

There was a shockwave as the grenade impacted the target. And as suddenly as the shooting had begun, the sounds of firing faded, and screams ceased. Again, Dean felt as if he was floating somewhere above his body.

Jacksons voice was nearby, talking in rushed, quiet tones, "Just breath man, we gotcha—you're doing great Adair." His hands were ripping apart fabric surrounding Jack's torso, shaking and covered in blood.

Dean stumbled toward the new found chaos, looked down at Adair's paling face. "Hey kid, you doing alright?" He asked joining Jackson on the feverish hunt to find and apply pressure to the bleeding wound.

"Yeah," Adair's breath was shallow, "Nothing like a shoulder wound," he sucks in a thin breath, "to tell a guy to slow the fuck down, huh?"

Dean felt his lips turn up into a small smile, "Yeah, you got that right, kid." He whispers back. Adair's losing too much blood for this to be a simple shoulder wound, he knows it, the kid knows it, but there's not much any of them can do about it right now. With that realization Dean fights the urge to panic, the urge to be physically ill. All he can muster at the moment is another lie, "We gotcha Jack, we gotcha—you just relax okay? We'll take care of you okay?" Adair nods, the kids too damn smart to believe him.

Jackson catches Dean's eyes,_ "Where is the medic?" he asks_ his voice a fading whisper as they both stared down at the blood red ground beneath them.

* * *

**A/N: If you get a chance, leave a review- let me know what you think. Thanks! ~L**


	8. Silence

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**I have to say thanks to everyone for all of the reviews! You guys have been awesome and I appreciate your kind words. I especially love that you are offering thoughts and suggestions- it makes writing this story a helluva lot of fun! **

* * *

**P.O.V: BEN HANSON (SILENCE)**

Though it had been said, he knew for a fact that silence was not golden.

Silence was downright fucking awful.

Silence carried with it the knowledge that something had gone horribly wrong. It was a screaming reminder that things would never be quite the same.

Two of first squad's thirteen members were gone. Flown off in a helicopter— bound for the nearest evacuation hospital. Howard was alright—two bullets to the leg, he'd be sent home, rehab and a few months later he'd be good as new. Adair, _well…_ it wasn't _good_.

Immediately after the chopper had lifted off, Ben had turned around, collected what was left of his sanity, and tried to sort out orders that had come down from the platoon commander. There hadn't been time to process the entirety of the situation. It was get up and go— get the hell out and prepare for whatever came down the line next. He'd been deployed before, but damn—it hadn't been anything like this, everyone had gone home—in one piece.

Fuck John Wayne for making war seem like a god damn walk in the park.

His head hurt. His chest hurt. He'd just lost a guy. Just watched Jackson and Winchester attempt to pull themselves together after their buddy damn near bled to death on the floor. He sighed, rubbed a hand across his face. God he was tired. And they were about to head out again.

Ben sucked in a deep breath, forced his feet to move, one after another, toward a small group of men sitting silently along a darkened hallway. As he approached he felt his chest tighten—his eyes searching for his men, Winchester, Jackson… _Adair._

Resting a hand on Jackson's shoulder, Ben sighed, locked eyes with Winchester across the hall. "We have work to do now." He spoke slowly, soft, like he was afraid to break anything—_anyone else_. "We'll talk about this later. Right now, get ready to go." The men had all looked at him, nodded in understanding and began shuffling around to collect their belongings and those items that had been left behind by the fallen.

The hour long process it took to get first squad back to the command post was tedious and exhausting. They'd had to walk back to the vehicles—nearly two miles away. It was dark by then, and Ben hadn't been entirely sure how he felt about the moonlit sky. On one hand it had provided some natural light to navigate the road, on another it was like a spot light shining down on them. Either way, they made it back to the command post with what remained of the squad still intact, and that was really all he wanted.

The command center, was a hollowed out two story house on the outskirts of Baghdad, filled with dirt and debris from the platoon of forty-one marines that had called it home the past eight days. It wasn't much, but for now it was a place to rest, a place to call 'home' and feel somewhat at ease.

When they'd arrived back at the command post he'd been immediately pulled into a meeting—Lieutenant Barlow had tagged his platoon sergeant, squad leaders, and fire team leaders for a thirty minute debriefing and semi-formal ass chewing. Ben was exhausted as he listened to Barlow's dialogue, his head lolling from side to side as he forced his eyes to stay awake and alert. It was hard to concentrate when all he could think about, all he could focus on was replaying the events that had occurred earlier in the night over and over again inside his head.

He'd have to suck it up though—there wasn't another option. First and third squads would be heading out in just a little over six hours—back into the street, running more patrols. It wasn't unexpected news, being sent back out on patrol so soon, but it was disheartening, and at the moment he sure wasn't looking forward to it.

Once they'd been dismissed Ben stumbled toward the small area of space his fire team had been occupying over the last week ready and willing to collapse into the hard, dirty floor. He had six hours to get as much sleep as he could—and it was likely he'd need every damn minute of it if he were going to be alert and ready in the morning. As he stumbled across the floor he looked down at men scattered around the rooms and hallways—some asleep, a few scratching out letters back home under flashlights. A few guys from third squad were stretched out on the floor, singing an old song—one he recognized from his father's collection, _'Nights in White Satin'_ – signing it pretty well too. Others were staring blankly off into space, looked almost as if they were trying to be swallowed up and forgotten.

Jackson was lying down on the ground of what must've been a living room at some point, head resting on his ruck, his cammie blouse pulled over his eyes, already asleep. Just behind him leaning against the wall Ben spotted Dean.

"Winchester," his voice was washed out, gravelly as he lowered himself into a squatting position, perching next to his friend, "you okay?"

Dean shook his head; he was staring down at his hands, hands that Ben could see even in the darkened night were streaked with dried blood. "Yeah."

Ben nodded. Unstrapped and held a half-empty canteen out in front of Dean. "Wash it off man." He said as dismissively as he could.

Dean hesitantly took the canteen, stared at it for a long moment, finally sloshing some water over his hands.

"I don't know what to say man," Ben said slowly, searching for words. "He's not coming back." Carefully he leaned into the cool plaster wall and slid into a seated position, his shoulder brushing against Dean's. It was taking everything he had not to cry.

There was a long silence followed by the sound of water sloshing over hands again, "I know." Winchester sighed. "I screwed up."

"It's not your fault." Ben shook his head, he wasn't going to let Winchester play martyr. "Good or bad this is war. People get hurt."

"That's just bullshit people say to feel better."

Ben felt his lips curl up into a sad tired smile, "Yeah," he agreed. He sighed rubbing a hand across his chin. "You're right."

Ben watched Dean take a drink from the canteen still clutched in his hands. He shook his head, eyebrows furrowed together as he frowned. "I know I am." Dean swallowed a second drink, "My dad used to say shit like that to me all the time." Dean handed over the nearly empty canteen and Ben took a swig of the warm liquid. Capping the canteen he tossed it to the ground next to his side and watched Dean pull his knees into his chest, resting his forearms atop his knees. "When will we get word on Adair?"

"I'm guessing we'll hear when we get back to the FOB." Surely the chain of command would give him news as soon as they had any, but Ben knew if the news was bad he couldn't risk letting Winchester and Jackson know until they were back on the forward operating base—back to a place where it was safe to fall apart for a few hours. Biting at his bottom lip he swallowed hard, "You should get some sleep. We're back on patrol at 0630."

* * *

**DEAN'S P.O.V.**

It felt like he'd only been asleep for twenty or so minutes when Dean felt a strong hand gripping his shoulder, shaking him awake.

Instinctively he knew it was Hanson, pushed the hand away, sighing wearily and refusing to open his eyes.

"If you're not gonna eat, get your shit and get ready to go." Hanson sounded irritated, _edgy._

God, he was tired. He felt beat down, his body aching, _needing_ for more sleep. He wasn't hungry, knew he wouldn't be able to keep his food down even if he tried. The smell of blood, the fact that he was still covered in it, wasn't going to go well for keeping anything down anytime soon. He rolled over on his side, felt Hanson's boot kick at his leg. _What an asshole._ Dean raised his arm, extended his middle finger and shifted his position again.

"Just get the fuck up will you?" There was an obvious unease cutting through Hanson's voice. Not normal, not comforting in the least, "You've got five man, we need to talk."

Dean exhaled, pushed himself up on his elbow and opened his eyes, watched as Hanson stalked back off toward the direction of the front door. "Shit," he mumbled, scratching his face and looking over at Jackson who was finishing up a pack of pretzels for breakfast, "What the hell was that about?" He asked, running a hand through his hair— hair that was well past regulation length—_god he need to cut his hair, fucking shave. _Shaking his headhe forced himself to sit up, checked his watch; 0610.

Jackson, shrugged at the question, dragged himself over to a spot next to Dean and took a long drink of water. "Probably has something to do with the L-T dragging his ass outta here a half hour ago."

Dean felt his body sag into the wall behind him. _Shit rolls downhill_, he thought sullenly. Whatever had set Hanson off probably wasn't going to end well for him either. "You know what it was about?"

"Nah man," Jackson sighed, "But whatever it was Ben started trippin'."

Dean groaned, "Great." He replied pushing himself upward to unsteady feet. Steadying himself against the wall he inhaled, grabbed the blood stained blouse he'd used as a blanket during the night and shook his head, "Gotta love a good come-to-Jesus moment."

Behind him he heard Jackson laugh, "Well hell man, whatever it is, I'm sure I'm next in line."

It didn't take long to find Hanson. He was outside leaning over one of the platoon's vehicles, pencil in hand, staring down at a map. _Coordinates—_Hanson was charting or checking coordinates—Dean couldn't be sure_. But it didn't make sense, why would he be doing it?_ It wasn't Hanson's job—it was above his pay grade. "What's goin' on?" He asked tugging his blouse on over his dirt covered olive green t-shirt. "What are you doin' Ben?"

Ben dropped his pencil, inhaled sharply as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nunez is out."

That caught Dean's attention immediately. "What?"

Sergeant Nunez was their squad leader—effectively he was in charge of the decisions Ben made for their fire team—as well as the two other fire teams in the squad. "Pretty sure he fractured his leg last night," Ben was saying. "Its purple and black and swollen so bad doc had to cut his boot off this morning. They're sending him back to the rear for treatment."

_Shit._ If something had happened to Nunez… Hanson's seniority meant only one thing, "L-T tagged you for squad leader, huh?" With only one day left out in the field before they went back to the FOB, the game had flat out changed, new rules, new referees… _new goddamn everything._

"Yeah," if it was possible Ben suddenly looked even more tired than he sounded. "So listen, I gotta talk to you about something."

"So talk."

Ben looked straight at him. "We have to re-organize the squad, for today we're a fire team short, and the thing is I need a new point man in for Ace."

_Oh Jesus. _ Was Ben seriously asking him to take point? The guy walking point walked first. He was responsible for access and entry, for finding IED's—booby traps. He was primarily responsible for everything that happened to the fire team—to the squad. If something happened, it was likely because the point man walked the fire team into it—likely he was going to end up the first of the dead.

"What about Jackson?" It sounded awful the second it came out of his mouth, Dean wanted to kick himself for even saying it.

"_He's been on point for three months_—I want to give him a break, but I need someone I can trust."

Dean nodded. He understood—walking point was a shitty job, it took a toll—he'd done it plenty of times back when he was hunting with his dad and Sam. At least if he was walking point it would always be his responsibility, his fault if something went wrong—and truthfully he actually kind of preferred it that way.

"So are you okay with it?" Hanson asked.

Dean nodded. Point. Shit. "Yeah." He answered, "I'm good."

"Okay then." Hanson smiled, looking relived. He collected his pencil again and turned away, "Hey, by the way," he spoke as he jotted down a series of notes, "I didn't mean to kick you this morning."

"The hell you didn't."

"Well," Ben paused, smiled. "Maybe not as hard as I did anyway."

* * *

**A/N: As I said before- I love your thoughts and suggestions- any that you have, feel free to drop me a line! Until next time- have a good one :)**


	9. Hope for the Best Prepare for the Worst

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**First, to those of you reviewing you make my day! Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me- I appreciate it. **

**Secondly, I know this is a shorter update- a longer one is on the way, and I will be updating the story much faster this time around. This update just took way too long and I felt like I was going crazy trying to write it. Ugh. The next update is much more action packed and sets up what happens in the end. Hope you all enjoy everything so far and hope you continue to as this story goes on!**

* * *

**HOPING FOR THE BEST**

As he walked with the men from his unit across the base, back toward the semi-air conditioned tents that housed the platoon when they weren't on patrol, Dean could feel the looks—the stares from those who'd been left behind to run the base. His uniform was thick with dust, dirt and dried blood—and _well… honestly worth staring at_, he thought morosely, _if you didn't know the story behind it_. Yet, it still made him uncomfortable—his father had long ago made it a point to insist his boys never drew attention to themselves for reasons such as this. He couldn't even begin to imagine how many more times child protective services would have been called on his dad if he or Sam had come back from a hunt looking anything like he currently did when they were younger.

Shaking his head, Dean sighed, he felt like the walking dead—figured he probably looked a little like it too. Exhaustion was dragging him down, weight from all of his gear pulling him further into the ground with each step. _Jesus, he was glad to be back on base._ Couldn't wait to get back to his rack—collapse for the next twelve hours. But first he'd drag himself to the showers—an actual friggin' shower— someplace to wash off all the godforsaken blood, dirt and sweat from his hair and skin.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't think of a single hunt he'd been on with his father and brother that had resulted in him remaining soaked in blood and dirt for more than forty-eight hours. Not a single one. And there had been some crap-tastic hunts back in the day. Dean sighed. Thinking about those hunts—_well thinking about any hunt in general_—made him wonder about his dad. It was roughly three p.m. in Iraq, that meant it was anywhere from five to eight in the morning back in the States. His best guess was that it was very likely his dad was passed out on a ratty motel bed catching some z's after a late night hunt or even more likely he was sleeping off last night's drinks from the local watering hole.

Honest to god, _he missed his dad_. Wished that as he stumbled back to his platoon's tent he was actually going to find John Winchester standing there… _waiting._

"Winchester?" Jackson's voice cut through his thoughts as they approached the end of their trek. Dean looked to his left, raised an eyebrow to acknowledge Jackson without having to waste the energy to actually speak. "Hey man," Jackson's voice was low, soft, "Hanson said anything to you about Adair yet?"

The question stopped Dean dead in his tracks.

No. Dean shook his head; he hadn't heard a damn thing. And honestly, he didn't really want to ask, but he had to. "Did you hear something?"

"I heard they got him out on an EVAC to Germany last night, very touch and go," Jackson sighed, kicked at the dirt beneath his boots, "they aren't expecting him to make it through the weekend."

Dean bit at his bottom lip shook his head. God damn, he wasn't going to cry. He just wasn't. Clearing his throat he asked, "Did Hanson tell you that?"

"No man." Jackson shook his head, "Sergeant Krantz did."

Dean nodded felt his chest tighten. _Damn it. _ He wasn't sure whether he felt more like punching someone or throwing up. Maybe he'd do both—just completely lose his mind.

"Well uh," he exhaled, slowly looked around, looked at anything and everything he could think of to keep his mind off Adair, "I guess we just hope for the best, huh?"

* * *

**PREPARING FOR THE WORST (P.O.V. SAM)**

On Sunday morning when his phone began to ring at two a.m., his initial reaction was to ignore the call, to roll over and let his phone record a message. But somewhere in between the third and fourth ring just before voicemail picked up he felt his arm reach out as his hand snapped the device off the bed stand. Flipping it open he cleared his throat, "Call a damn cab Brady." He growled pressing the phone to his ear. "I'm not a freakin' cab service."

But instead of the rousing sounds of an afterhours bar, Sam was met by an eerie silence on the other end of the line. The kind of silence that damn near always stopped his heart and forced him into immediate understanding that something was _very wrong._ Pulling the phone away from his ear he glanced at an unfamiliar, un-American number flashing across the screen. Instantly he was sitting straight up in bed, phone pressed back to his ear, heart racing.

"Dean?" _Why the hell was Dean calling him at this hour? Something was wrong;_ he told himself again, _because Dean wouldn't make this call unless something was wrong…_"Dean, are you alright?"

There was the sound of hesitation on the other end of the line, and Sam could almost picture Dean struggling to decide whether or not he should hang-up. Quit the conversation before it even began.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was both low and quiet, holding back the panic he felt creeping up his chest, and yet somehow insistent and demanding at the same time.

_"Sammy?"_ the voice on the other end of the phone was unnaturally shaky, completely remiss from an older brother Sam had always known to be anything but unsteady.

"Hey…" Sam paused, bit nervously at his lip, "What's going on?"

"Jesus Sam." Sam could hear the breath cascade off his brother's lips, air rushing out into void space. "It's been a shitty day man." And it was there again, the unmistakable sting of pain coming through in an uncertain tone.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked.

There was hesitation again before Dean spoke. "I'm trying to be."

Sam frowned, glanced around his darkened bedroom. "I don't really…" Sam sighed rubbing a hand over his forehead, "I don't know what that means."

"I just…" Dean murmured, "_shit._" There was a long pause. Even though he couldn't see Dean, and without needing to ask Sam knew, without a doubt, Dean losing his composure on the other end of the line. "Sammy," Dean's voice cracked, "I'm sorry I called. I know it's late. I just needed to hear your voice, alright?"

"Listen Dean," Sam inhaled, "I don't know what's goin' on—but you are starting to scare me."

Dean cleared his throat, "A guy in my squad passed away this weekend, he was pretty messed up during what was a routine mission out here." Dean said sounding weary, "I just want you to know that if something happens," he stammered, "happens to me, trust that these guys did everything they could, okay? _Everything_."

The statement sounded so heartbreaking it reminded Sam family hunts years ago. Nights when Sam would find himself in the back of the Impala, injured, terrified, and sometimes both. On those nights Dean would lean over him, _'Just hold on man. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you Sammy, ever.'_ It was a different time and place, but it was still the same old feeling—Dean trying to make things that would never be okay at the very least tolerable.

"Just listen to me." Dean implored, "I know you don't want to hear it, but just in case, be prepared for the worst, okay?"

_"What?"_ Sam's breath caught. He leaned back, eyes stinging as he rested his head on the cool wall behind his bed. "You can't be serious."

"And Sam," Dean paused, cleared his throat, "I really hope things are going well with you and your girl. You deserve it."


	10. Stand Down

**A/U. Set Pre-series. **Dean Centered Story (though John and Sam get mixed in-especially later on). After Sam leaves for Stanford, and John takes off solo hunting, Dean Makes the decision to enlist in the USMC. It turns out to be a little more than he may have bargained for.

**Supernatural Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Never have... don't intend to, this is just to satisfy my incessant need to write... _something..._

**You guys continue to make my day with your reviews- THANK YOU! :) **

* * *

**STAND DOWN**

The last time he picked up the phone to call his brother had been a mistake that had eaten away at him every time in the past three weeks he received a letter or email—_which had been damn near every other day_— from Sam begging him to call him at the next opportunity. Sam was angry and hurt, and Dean knew it wasn't unjustified as he folded up another of those letters and shoved it into his cargo pocket.

In all honesty, Dean was pretty pissed at himself for the making the phone call in the first place. News of Adair had hit hard that day— had rocked Dean's world. To lose a kid that reminded him so much of Sam it was hard to breathe at times— because he'd always believed, always thought, Adair was a kid who had belonged in college, not dying on the concrete floor of some abandoned Iraqi home just outside of Baghdad. He'd never want that for his brother—couldn't imagine Jack Adair's family had ever been prepared for it to happen to their child and brother. But the loss had hurt most because he had tried to save him—he and Jackson and Hanson—_they had tried_. He hoped Adair's family could at least take solace in that—Dean wanted them to believe that they had all fought to keep Jack with them, to comfort him, to do everything that had been within their power.

He couldn't imagine what it would be like to send a family member to war and receive a pine box draped in an American flag in return. He couldn't imagine how Sam would have felt if _he_ had come home in that box. The more he tried to process it the more he seemed to lose it. And the more he seemed to lose it the more desperate he felt. It was awful and ugly and _damn_… calling Sam had seemed like the only option he had to calm his nerves.

Except the phone call hadn't worked the way he'd planned.

He found himself in the back of a dark MWR tent— Morale, Welfare and Recreation was putting on an all night movie night—a series of ridiculous comedies meant to boost morale on base. And it probably would have cheered him up on any other given day—but immediately after the phone call home he wasn't in the mood, and found himself choking on anger and tears through two and a half hours of movies he could barely remember.

"You gonna call him or write him back? Tell him you're fine?" Hanson asked standing in front of Dean, holding out a _Three Musketeers_ bar in his hand. It was the latest prize Ben had garnered from the three care packages he'd gotten from his mother in the last week.

Dean shrugged, snapped up the offering, "Eventually." He replied.

Hanson sat down next to Dean, leaning against the sandbag wall, unwrapped and took a bite out of his own candy bar.

"I heard your promotion came through…" Dean shook his head, "Who the hell would have thought? Sergeant Hanson_, huh..."_ He grunted, took another bite of his candy bar.

Hanson laughed, "You have no idea how much I enjoy out-ranking you Winchester."

"Screw you." He said quietly, and then added, "Seriously though, now that you're our new squad leader, where the hell does that leave Jackson and I?"

"Oh, that's easy I've got a three step plan." Hanson's face broke into a disarmingly confident smile, "One, you're taking team lead. Two, Murrays moving over from third squad and three Chadwick's gonna imbed with you. You guys will be fine."

"That's your brilliant three step plan?" Dean asked arching an eyebrow.

"You gotta better one?

"No."

Truth be told he really didn't. Ben's plan was actually quite brilliant in all retrospect. And Dean was genuinely looking forward to taking over as the fire team leader. Then there was the sheer relief that Jackson was going to stay on his team and hell Murray wasn't half bad. Then of course there was the perk of Chadwick working with them—the squad's corpsman working with his team actually made him feel a little more secure. A medic standing by in case of another… _well, just in case… _

"Yeah… I didn't think so."

"Chadwick's gonna carry extra ammo I take it, since we don't have…" Dean paused, shook his head trying to clear it, "since we don't really have a fourth?"

Hanson shrugged, "Well you're the fire-team leader—I guess that's for you to figure out." Hanson bit into his candy bar, chewed for a moment, "The word is we're getting tagged for pretty crap detail next time we're out."

Dean nodded. Shivered. _What was new?_

Next to him Dean heard Ben clear his throat, "How are _you_ really doin' with all of _this_?"

_"Huh?"_ Dean looked up feeling almost startled by the question.

"You heard me." Hanson said his voice stiff; he was looking straight at Dean.

Dean nodded, what the hell was he supposed to say to that? _Gosh, I'm great. Peachy keen. _Shaking his head he forced a half-assed grin, "Gee dad, I've been feeling kinda down lately."

Ben looked at him incredulously, as if saying, _You're such an idiot._ "Yeah, asshole, I kinda figured."

Dean sighed, looked over at Ben who sat there next to him, picking apart a candy bar, elbows almost touching and Dean felt his chest tighten. Never in his past could he recall a single relationship with anyone other than Sam that had been so familiar. He even found himself wondering from time to time if he might actually know Ben Hanson better than his own brother by now. It scared the hell out of him, made him feel vulnerable; at risk to lose something more then he'd care to admit. Hell he'd already lost Adair—but losing Ben…

Dean shook his head. _Like hell he needed to even think about that—it wasn't an option._

There was a sudden flurry of dust and noise, and Dean looked up at the sky as a group of harrier jets scrambled into the fading light above him. Air traffic had been picking up in the past few days, mostly helicopters on medevac assignments, but jets from the other side of their base. A sure sign that whatever Intel Ben had received had been spot on—fighting was escalating. Crap details were about all that they were going to be handed in the coming weeks.

"Hey Hanson," Dean paused biting at his lower lip, "Everything that's happened—shit with my brother included—I'm fine. I want you to know that_. I'm fine."_

Ben shot him a quick sideways glance, "You. Are. A. Liar. Winchester." He said his voice mocking.

Dean shrugged, shoved the final piece of chocolate bar in his mouth and smiled, "Well honestly then _Sarge_," he said with an equal intensity of mocking, "this is pretty much the worst fucking vacation of my life."

"Well, think about it this way." Ben gestured at the tents and sand surrounding them, "This," he smiled his actions becoming more intense as he continued, "is no longer a vacation. It's a quest. It's a quest for fun. I'm gonna have fun and you're gonna have fun. We're all gonna have so much fucking fun, we'll need plastic surgery to remove our goddamn smiles."

Dean's lips curved up into a smile, and he started chuckling. The sound was a soft low rumble, before it broke into a full-on laugh. Ben joined him, sounded every bit as exhausted and strung out as Dean did.

"What the hell Hanson?" Dean chocked out sucking air into his lungs, "I can't believe you're quoting National Lampoons now." Dean continued to laugh, closed his eyes, and leaned back into the cool sandbags behind his head. "Besides," he added as he shook his head in amusement and dismay, "I hear Wally World is closed this time of year." He pressed his palms to his eyes, exhaled.

"Well, that sucks." Hanson said a smile spread out on his face as he stretched upward and yawned.

"God, Hanson," Dean drawled, "we've gotta get the hell out of here."

Hanson groaned, "Yeah we do." He said in agreement. "We will Winchester. One way or another… we will."


End file.
